Coffeehouse Conversations
by AmbyrRose
Summary: What goes on in Hollywood Arts's favorite coffeehouse.  So far Bat, Tribbie
1. The Rain

The rain. It hammers the streets, sprays into windshields, slides in beads down store windows. The girl watches, silent, holding her untouched coffee in both hands. She is biting her lip until a red slash appears on it; her coffee trembles slightly. _You wanted this_, she reminds herself, again and again. _You prayed for this again and again._ She is still praying, in fact – praying for five more minutes, ten more minutes, just a little more time. She endured this once. She shouldn't have to again.

The boy stands under an awning by the shop next door. He's been staring through the window for ten minutes, but he still couldn't tell you what was in the display. He's kept her waiting for long enough. About fifteen feet separates the two of them, anyway. But even now, after two years of successfully avoiding her, she still has the power to root his feet to the ground. It really is ridiculous. Time changes things; he himself has changed.

But what if she hasn't?

The girl looks up, heart in her mouth. The little bell tinkles as the coffeehouse's door creaks open. A balding, middle-aged man waddles in, mopping his head with his hat and shaking his head like a dog. Her thudding chest eases, and her heart falls from her mouth to her stomach in one fell swoop. It has gone on like this for nearly a quarter hour; the door opens, and her heart attempts to saw itself in half as one half soars and the other sinks. But then it stops altogether, and she freezes in the act of taking a soothing sip of coffee. On the man's heels is a boy. The boy.

Him.

She is as gorgeous as ever, he thinks, even more so as her face pales and her eyes grow bright. He balks, unable to believe that she really is here. So he stalls, avoiding her gaze by stepping up to the counter and ordering some drink from the daily specials board. He dawdles awkwardly as the espresso machine whirrs to life and spouts foam into a mug. He takes it with a deep breath. Steeling himself.

"Hey, Cat," he says softly.

She bites her lip again, but smiles ever so slightly. "Hey, Beck."

He sits down warily, somehow managing to watch her but not make eye contact. She's struggling, staring at the knots and whorls in the wood as if they contained the answers to all life's questions. Struggling against the memories flooding her mind:

_Squealing with delight as he pulls a quarter from her ear._

_Telling him things she'd never told anyone, things about wishing and dreaming and hoping. And having him understand. Having someone actually understand._

_Slipping away like dust on the wind when she sees his girlfriend coming, because she doesn't like making trouble for him. But living off those quiet words he whispered as she left: "You're my best friend, Cat, you really are."_

_Dancing with him, alone, in his RV. Looking into his eyes. And tasting the sweet tang of his lips._

_Sobbing as she hurled her phone across the room, into the wall, trying in vain to distance herself from that one, cruel word: mistake. She, Cat Valentine, had been his mistake. Swearing she would never speak to him again._

So long ago.

He's lost, too, but in tumbling, heaving emotion. Drowning in regret. Wrestling hope. Breathing in sweet, sweet agony as her never-quite-forgotten scent floats across the table. He didn't know why he'd let it go this long. He never should have let two years slip by, because so many words he'd never said are almost lost to him now. And he has no idea how to find them.

He decides somebody better say _something_ before they both went insane. "I thought you didn't drink coffee?"

"Oh, it's not so bad if you add some cream and sugar," she says, still not looking him in the eye.

"Oh, yeah? How much?"

She shrugs ruefully, the ghost of a smile playing with her lips. He wants so desperately to take that smile and pull until it blossomed as warmly as it used to, but this moment is so very, very delicate he's afraid one wrong move will shatter it beyond repair. "I don't really know about cream, and I lost count after four sugars."

He smiles. Her heart skips. Why, oh _why_ did he have to smile? Didn't he know that simple little smile was like a hurricane to her, battering her heart until she was so conflicted she wanted to sing and dance while sobbing hopelessly? He shouldn't do this to her. It just wasn't fair.

She puts down her coffee and looks him in the eye. "What are we doing, Beck?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look, we both know you hurt me. A lot. But that was sophomore year, like . . . almost two years ago. That's like, _forever_."

The smile has mercifully vanished. "You think so? It feels like yesterday to me."

It does to her too, some days. Like the wound is fresh, like it's still bleeding. No, this is getting too personal. She has a plan: sort out what happened, shake hands, and part ways so she can move on. She isn't supposed to like being this close to him. She isn't supposed to feel more alive than she has in two years.

Looking into her sweet, conflicted eyes, he knows he's made the right choice, even if she isn't so sure.

"My point is," she continues with a confidence she doesn't feel, "that you – that we both obviously moved on, and maybe we can just be friends, and do, I don't know, friendly stuff, like . . . like saying hi at lunch and going to movies with other friends and . . . stuff."

He reaches across the table for her hand. Their fingertips touch, and she draws back. He lets her, but leaves his hand there, an inch from hers. He isn't going to be like his father. He isn't going to live his life alone because he left so many things unsaid they eventually smothered any relationship he might have. "Cat."

She meets his gaze and holds it this time.

"She's gone, Cat. I broke up with her."

He watches her lose her footing, her eyes widening as her world shifts underneath her. "But . . . but . . . why?"

_Because she's not you,_ he thinks, but doesn't say it. Not yet. "We didn't work. Could never have worked. I was just too stupid to figure that out for a while."

Her head is spinning, the knuckles on her left hand whitening around the coffee cup. "So . . . what are you doing here?"

"Well," he says hesitantly, "I didn't have a real specific plan, but I was hoping on correcting a mistake I made two years ago." He was going to take his time, work it into the conversation smoothly, but it pretty much seems like now or never. "Cat, I know I hurt you. I never wanted to, but I swear I'm sorry. And I want you back."

She hisses in a breath quickly, freezing. The next word that pops out of her mouth catches him off-guard. "Why?"

His eyebrows shoot up. That was her question? What was he supposed to say to that? "Isn't it obvious?"

Her brow furrows. "Not really."

"Well, because . . . because I love you."

"I love you too," she says matter-of-factly, brushing this minor detail aside. "But you said that to Jade too, didn't you?"

He thinks. And thinks. And says slowly, as if just coming to this realization, "Um . . . no, actually."

Her eyes widened even more. "No? Really?"

"I don't think I ever did." The realization stuns him. He'd never said it. He'd never meant it. What had he been _doing_ all that time? Why had it taken him that long?

She, on the other hand, is positively trembling. He'd never said it. Never. And since everybody has to love someone, as she fervently believes, if he hadn't loved _her_ then . . .

The whole in her heart is suddenly much, much smaller.

Still . . .

"I'm afraid." It slips out before she can help it, and she quickly takes a gulp of coffee to hide her embarrassment.

"Me too," he confesses, swallowing half his coffee just for something to do. They set their cups down, studying each other's hands.

"Where does that leave us, then?" she asks softly.

He smiles gently, like dawn after a frostbitten night. "I'm really not sure," he says, reaching out his hand again. "But it's got to be better than where we were."

In that rainy, dim coffeehouse, he takes her hand. She doesn't pull away.

It's a small start. But it's a beginning.


	2. Like Romeo and Juliet

They were like Romeo and Juliet, only he was fairly sure Romeo was better looking than him, and Nurse would have killed Juliet if she'd worn such short skirts.

They were like Bonnie and Clyde, only they stole kisses in a janitor's closet instead of money from a bank, and neither of them had a tenth of those steel nerves.

They were like Marc Antony and Cleopatra, only he was more like a court jester than an emperor and she loved herself too much to commit suicide.

They were like Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, only Elizabeth didn't obsess over fitting in like she did, and Mr. Darcy had a way with words he never would.

They were like Tristan and Isolde, only she was too glamorous for the eleventh century and swears Ireland is full of European bumpkins anyway, and he was too cowardly to be the knight in shining armor of the myth.

They were like da Vinci and the mysterious Mona Lisa, only he had never touched a paintbrush in his life and God knows nobody ever had a reason to paint her.

They were like Troy and Gabriella (which he swore he had _not_ seen), only she couldn't sing worth crap and the idea of him as a jock was downright laughable.

They were like Bella and Edward (which he swore he had _not_ read), only she was the one with the sparkling, glittery reputation, and he was the one who desperately wanted a part of her word.

There was nothing ridiculous in the comparison; on one day or another, they were all of those things. Only sometimes they weren't. Like when she dragged him into a closet, made out until the bell rang, and then forced him to stay there for at least ten minutes after she left so no one saw. Or when she slapped him if he tried to hold her hand when she thought people were around. But he needed her. And forbidden love was even more romantic. Like Romeo and Juliet.

Right?

Except when they came to the coffeehouse.

It was small, usually not crowded at the time of night they came. He was usually already through buying, waiting for her with his chai tea latte in hand. He would watch her strut up to the front of the line no matter how many people were there, order her no-fat skinny vanilla frapuccino. And when she sat down, he was allowed to tuck her hair behind her ear for her, and she actually laughed at his jokes. But most of the time they didn't really talk, just _were_, in this tiny, Old-World coffeehouse. Something about the age-stained wood tables and the rich, thick scent of ground coffee beans made him feel just a little braver, and her just a little sweeter. It wasn't the kind of heart-pounding rush of kisses in closets and corners; it was touching fingertips in a way that was almost tender, in a way that wasn't Romeo and Juliet, or Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, or even Bella and Edward (which he _still_ had not read). It was their way, cautiously affectionate, hesitantly sweet. In that place, they didn't have to be anyone else. There was no measuring up, no reputations to uphold, no masks, no lies, no underlying self-preservation.

In that old coffeehouse, there was simply them. Trina and Robbie. Together.


End file.
